After the Fact
by dimpleforyourthoughts
Summary: "He sees her again on a Sunday, two years after the fact." Sam/Amelia.


**Author's note: Written to the prompt Sam+Amelia, fix things up. I personally am not a Sam/Amelia shipper, but I rather liked the way this one turned out. Please review. **

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He sees her again on a Sunday, two years after the fact.

They're ducking out of a diner, the two of them striding over to the Impala as Dean stretches and yawns like a cat and says, "Today's gonna be a good day Sammy, I can feel it" and Sam's about to chip in sarcastically with how that has _nothing _to do with the fact that Dean spent last night's salt-n-burn celebration in the nearest strip club. It's crisp, cool, the kind of tint in the winter air that speaks of nearing spring and new beginnings, and something akin to a fresh tank of gas and a cup of joe.

She's exiting the coffee shop on the other side of the empty street, carrying a bag and smiling slightly and Sam somehow knows it's because she used coupons to get an awesome discount. He knows those little things about her, even in this moment of absolute paralysis, just like he knows that paisley blouse she's wearing has an ink stain on the shoulder from the one time he playfully tossed a pen at her when she teased him for having hair that was too long and legs that were too long and arms that were two heavy when he held her. Just like he knows there's a birthmark above her left hip the shape of a strawberry. Just like he knows she actually hates coffee, prefers tea instead.

Amelia's got her hair tied up, one loose curl bouncing along her jawline like a ribbon of chocolate and in the early morning light she looks a little angelic, Sam thinks. She's smiling at the cashier, stepping out of the coffee shop and into the sun and when she spots him her hand automatically flies to her stomach.

Sam's eyes track down to follow that hand, and when they see the rise and swell of Amelia's belly, he can't tell whether his heart is breaking from happiness or sadness.

So she chose Don.

So she lived happily ever after.

Seconds turn into hours turn into eons as they stare at one another—the space between them fills two years and twenty states and one motel room only one of them showed up to. Her smile is small, a little wry, a little shy, and it's clear she wants to talk to him as she steps off the curb, ignoring the blinking traffic lights because Amelia has never been one to go about things the conventional way, especially when she's excited. Amelia makes to cross the street to Sam, but stops, spotting something just beyond Sam's shoulder.

Sam knows without turning what she sees. The Impala. The brother standing next to the Impala shouting, "Sam, c'mon! This gas tank isn't gonna fill itself!" The car and the brother and the life that Sam chose. Sam's own happily ever after.

Amelia steps back on to the curb, eyes wide and frozen and even from so far away she understands, and Sam feels such a rush of affection towards her, sharp and heady and suddenly he's back in a bedroom that lies miles and miles away, with Amelia tracing licks and pets down his chest as she holds him close and whispers "I love you" and "I need you" and "Please stay".

Sam had stayed. Just not with her.

"Sam!" Dean jogs over, probably wondering why Sam is standing and gaping across the street. He follows Sam's line of sight, and Sam can feel him tense and it's probably because Dean knows exactly who he's looking at the second he sees her.

"Oh." Is Dean's response.

Amelia raises her hand, in farewell, and then feints as if to brush back that singular curl behind her ear. She touches her baby bump again, like she's apologizing, and nods once, twice, three times, and to Sam each one is a different apology, a different reconciliation, a different acknowledgement of the people they were, the people they are, and the people that they chose to be.

And for all of those things he wants to say, wants to shout, wants to cry and scream, he just nods in return.

He watches her walk away, ballet flats making soft sounds on the asphalt of this quiet street and loose strands of hair bouncing in the breeze.

Dean waits patiently until Sam gets in the car. He keeps the radio off and his eyes straight ahead, which Sam knows is a huge effort to give him space on Dean's behalf. Sam's grateful, opting to stare out the window.

Two years. And all he gets is a half wave and three nods.

But Sam thinks of the bump on her belly, of the healthy flush on her cheeks, of the sparkling wedding band he'd spotted on her hand as she walked away.

And he knows that it's enough.


End file.
